Chapter Text
Palette Roller was not one who was keen at sitting still. His whole life, he’s always been up and doing things, moving as time did, any minute wasted sitting and doing nothing, was a minute he could be doing something important. Sure, over the last few years, he’s gotten better at taking breaks, they were never long. He grew up knowing the world held stories, endless tales lived by people who walked many roads. Palette quite enjoyed hearing these stories, and they were not going to come to him if he was sitting down doing nothing. The best stories, he found, had to be sought out and took time. Actually, Palette is sure the only time he’s still, is when he’s enthralled with a story being told to him by some stranger.
Most came from older folks, who lived long, vast lives. He always enjoyed listening to their stories, and he knew they enjoyed having someone listen. It was often these stories that ended with him and whichever stranger he spoke to in tears. It was his love for these old tales that made him spend most of his time not working, volunteering in retirement communities. He loved their stories. He loved seeing and feeling the older folk light up with somber joy, reminiscing on the days of their youth, even if some of them lived harder lives, they seemed happy to just have someone listen to them. It was hard when they passed, it was the biggest draw back of what he did. He’d walk into the front, greet the kind receptionists whose names he always made a point to remember, and check in, and during this small talk, he’d usually find a moment of silence, and he could always feel it.
People often felt guilty when they had to tell such news, and Palette knew his sorrowful reaction would further that guilt, but he couldn’t help himself. Death was not something he was good at handling. The irony is not lost on him, but he’d argue over and over that it was different. He was mourning these people whose last remaining kin lived far away or were all dead. Who had no friends and no loved ones, he mourned them and their stories. Which often, he felt, die with them. Death was not something Palette was good at handling.
The tent, as time passed, became a place full of death. Except, without The God of Death himself, their final moments were often miserable and slow. At least the old folk often passed in their sleep, here, they waited in pain and cried in their sleep. If sleep came for them. Palette didn’t like being in the tent, he tried many times to heal his leg himself but it was pointless, his magic couldn’t replenish itself here, not with the mounting negativity and stifled creativity. It didn’t help that he saw Goth less and less. And each time he did see his husband, Goth seemed tired and stressed. He was helping, as Palette learned, his uncle as he currently was the only God of Death.
Goth wasn’t a fan of reaping, as long as Palette had known him, Goth had always struggled with accepting his role, and by association, his magic. It wasn’t a death touch, but it drained life all the same. Goth always feared holding hands too long, or that laying next to one another would be close enough to somehow steal all of Palette’s life from his body. So Palette did not need to ask why Goth felt so anxious in the midst of his sorrow and exhaustion. Instead, he offered stories. Tales of those long passed. And these stories always seemed to help.
Eventually, Goth began to take those within the tent, he’d hold the person's hand, and Palette would strain to hear whatever story Goth had prompted them to tell. Gentle, kind and an act of mercy. But it didn’t stop the tent from taking on a new image. And soon, Palette found it hard to sleep and focus. His eyes would drift tiredly, sometimes the blur of the tent would linger and Palette would call out for Goth, rationally knowing his partner was not there. Healing was a long, grueling process.
When his leg healed enough to stand, Palette pushed past the burning sensation to walk. He stumbled, fell a few times, but got back up to walk, to move. Much to the dismay of the doe who ran the tent, Palette wanted nothing more than to get out of the oppressive weight of the negativity and death. When he was able to walk, he decided he was rather done with the tent, and asked about moving elsewhere. Which was a mistake, he realised, when that doe, Who’s name Palette learned to be Holly, had brought Geno of all monsters, to talk to him.
As predicted, his father in law was not really pleased with Palette’s decision to up and ignore crucial steps in the healing process, which led them here now, sitting outside on a bench just a few feet away from the tent.
“I’m fine! Really! It doesn’t hurt, and it’s fine enough to walk on.” Palette tried, but Geno shook his head.
“That’s- you have nerve damage. That’s not something you can get rid of by walking a few steps after being cleared for Physical Therapy.” Geno stresses, tapping his foot as he sighs deeply, “You need to take the healing process seriously if you want to walk properly and maybe reverse some of the damage done. Not that I think the fractures you had could fully heal-” he's interrupted.
“So then why waste my time sitting?” Palette says and Geno’s jaw clenches.
Palette takes it as an opportunity to continue, “If it won’t heal fully, why would I waste my time laying there? You need help, people need help. I can help!” There’s a beat of silence, Geno’s eye shuts as he breathes in, running a hand over his face. Palette practically glares at him, like he’s challenging Geno to argue back.
“You waste your time to ensure this won’t get worse. I understand that you’re itching to help, but I’m imploring you to think for five minutes about this.” Geno says, evenly, and what he says next drains all the fight from Palette, “And if Goth were to see you like this, it would stress him out even more. And you don’t want that, I know you don’t.” There was still a great deal of energy coursing its way wildly through Palette, and each beat of silence gives way to its violent path.
And he hated it. Because Geno wasn’t someone he really wanted to argue with, especially after all that’s happened. But he was so restless, the idea of still having to be slowed down, laying in bed unable to do anything, made him agitated.
Geno seems to have caught on to this, his gaze softened and huffed, “Look, you can be out of the tent, and walk around, but you can’t do it without some sort of aid and not without doing a few exercises first. Might as well heal your leg as much as you can, unless you want to be stuck here for a lot longer.” It was a compromise Palette ended up agreeing to. Whatever kept him out of the tent most of the time.
And it did seem to help, though the feeling in his leg wasn’t really getting any better, walking on it with the help of crutches was working. It meant he could sit outside of the tent, and explore in short distances. As often as he could, he would be out of the tent, trying to regain any semblance of energy. It was slow, but after a few weeks, Palette began to feel a lot better. And feeling better meant he could now help wherever he could. It started out of the tents, walking around the uncanny copy of what Sans had called Snowdin (Which he also learned was a town in The Underground), talking to the strangely familiar yet very different figures. Learning their stories, their lives before this place.
Sitting with other monsters and hearing how they managed to pick up the pieces here, it actually renewed some hope Palette wasn’t even aware he lost. It was good. It felt, for just a moment, like old times.
The improvement meant he was also gaining a bit more than physical strength back. Slowly, his magic began to return to him as well. It meant he was closer to being able to help more. To give people a little respite among all their sorrow and bitter agony. And all that meant Goth seemed a little less stressed. It was something Palette picked up on the last time they were able to sit down and talk with one another.
Goth seemed to visibly relax a little, something Palette was half tempted to gently poke fun of, but thought better of it. After all, his condition wasn’t the only major stresser currently eating away at Goth, the other skeleton was still trying to help pick up the pace. Though, as Palette learned, Reaper, Goth’s uncle, was not keen on letting him do much of the heavier jobs. Which was clearly striking a nerve, but Goth lamented that he probably wasn’t going to mention it as his uncle seemed to have enough weighing him down, it just didn’t seem fair nor right. It was a very insightful conversation, and when Goth had to inevitably return to his temporary work, it was with a small chunk of weight off his shoulders. Something Palette was glad to see.
He wasn’t already a fan of other people’s despondency, but seeing it on Goth, it just didn’t feel right. Still, as his husband often did, Goth was still pushing through it, determined to help wherever he could. Geno once joked that Palette must have influenced that, but he liked to think that Goth was just that sort of person.
Eventually, crutches turned into a cane, and Palette spent time in the tent helping Holly, the doe who ran the tent, by healing the more minor and manageable injuries. Conversing with the people in the tent also provides Palette with further motivation to spend his more restful moments, planning. New hope meant new vigor. A reminder of what there is to fight for. He could think more clearly. Nightmare was still out there, likely feeding off of another Universe. They still have to search for Death, and all else in between. Though he could now cross off getting back on his feet. He still needs to talk with Goth, and maybe he could try to talk to Cross or Swap.
He hadn't seen them much. Cross came into the tent to check on him a bit ago, according to Holly, but he was asleep and Cross didn't want to wake him. Palette sort of wished he did. He has so many questions and he knew Cross and Swap would have at least some of the answers. He should find them, talk to them and figure out what exactly happened. If they knew what happened, that is. His hands scrubbed at his face for a moment, though he felt more like himself, it didn't make this any less exhausting. But this was a start, a good start at that.
Now finding the two of them, wasn't easy. That was something he figured, there were a lot of people with a lot of questions, and he's sure they were very busy. But Palette was among the many with a ton of questions, and he wanted to get these answers sooner rather than later. So when he finally caught sight of a blur of white and black. He moved as quickly as he could, trying not to startle those around him, but Palette felt if he didn’t stop them now, he wouldn’t get another chance. “Cro-” Palette begins to call, though in his rush, he doesn’t think fast enough to stop himself from applying too much pressure on his injured leg. The jolt of numb burning startles him, but it’s the cane getting caught in between his legs that causes him to tumble.
Squeezing his eyes shut and taking in a deep breath as the numb burning becomes almost excruciating. He’d be more embarrassed if it weren’t for that pain, so Palette will consider this a silver lining to save himself from the frustration. Hands find his shoulders and slowly help him to sit up.
“You gotta slow down, Pal. That looks like it hurts.” Comes Cross’s voice. “Yeah,” Palette grits out, “Yeah it does.” He wants to say something else, maybe something that’s not too nice, but he shakes his head clear.
His head snaps to Cross, “You.” He says, causing Cross to startle a bit, looking around before their eyes meet again, “... Me?” Cross says awkwardly, Palette nods.
“What happened? Swap said they left to handle something and never came back, but there has to be more you aren’t telling us.” Palette says, Cross blinks, looking around once more, “Look, kid, maybe we should focus on getting you back-” Palette groans, “Don’t do this to me too.” He says it's a complaint he can’t stop himself from making, Cross seems confused, “Do what?” he asks.
“Treat me like a kid!” Palette says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I'm not a kid! And if anyone deserves to know what happened here, it's me! I'm supposed to fix this, right? Well I can't do that if I don't know what I'm supposed to fix!” He snaps.
Cross looks at Palette for a moment, then he takes a deep breath. “Why don't we talk somewhere else, ok?” Cross says, Palette nods.
They move to a nearby bench, and it falls tensely silent again. Cross seems to be mulling over his explanation very hard. Palette can feel the apprehension radiating from him, and he knows Cross doesn't want to be the one to have this conversation. But the older skeleton straightens up and Palette leans in.
“Ok, this is what I know,” Cross turns to face Palette, “We were dealing with a small issue in Outertale, nothing major just cleaning up some mess Error left behind. We split up, but at some point, Dream informed us that something urgent had come up in another AU, he seemed panicked…” Cross trails off, his gaze leaving Palette, who now anxiously awaited for more.
“I remember thinking that it must have been bad because Ink went too… It was only after we were done in Outertale that Swap and I realized we hadn't heard back from the other two. Swap knew where they rushed off to, a variant of Underfell… when we got there…” Cross took a deep breath. Palette felt he knew where the story was going, yet he couldn't help but urge Cross onward.
“What… what did you see?” He asks… Cross looks at him silently for a moment.
“Ashened sky, dark and midnight. There were people everywhere but they didn't move, they were stuck there, faces blank… some of them… some of them with branches- we-” Cross sighs deeply, turning away and scrubbing at his face, “We couldn't find Ink or Dream anywhere… it was so dark and the further we got into the city, the more… carnage was left behind…” Cross swallows, head held in his hands.
Palette put the rest together, he turned slowly away from Cross. “Right… but what about Ink and Dream? Geno said he talked to you guys, that maybe Error is involved? Have you checked the Antivoid?” Palette asks, Cross wrings his hands together.
“We… we haven't had the time. This happened right after we discovered they were unreachable…” Cross leans back, “It could be possible Error is involved, but he wouldn't have any incentive for it. Knowing Error, he would have boasted about it by now… in fact… aside from cleaning up his messes, we haven't really seen him much. Like, we haven't fought him in a while… and these messes with the code he's been doing, it's not- they're minor…” Cross scratches his head.
Palette nods. “Well, I guess it's a place to start. It could be that Nightmare or any of his pawns know of an opening the Antivoid… Maybe Error is a distraction…” Palette suggests, sighing deeply.
Cross gives him a glance, seeing him so deflated, he pulls Palette into his side. “Hey, look, it's a mess. All of this is. I mean, Swap and I are completely out of our element here… you're a bright ki- young…man… and you're capable of handling this. And you're not doing it alone.” Cross says, Palette gives him a half smile.
The last sentence serving as a reminder, Palette sighs again, “I just hope Goth and I are as capable as we want to be…”
Goth looks across the reddened grass. The midnight eye staring down at him, this was the lightest work his uncle could give him, but the carnage spoke in irony to the word “lightest”. Bodies here were scattered across the ground, pulled apart and oozing black tar. Their faces twisted in empty horror. All their heads twisted so they face up to their eternal watcher. Goth hesitates, he hates it, because these people should be dead, but they gurgle, twitch, and cry.
Their bodies contorted, broken and torn open, yet they still live. Goth raises his scythe, swinging it across the field, watching the souls lift, but roots cling to them. Reluctant to let go of their meal, they try to drag the souls back down, Goth swings again, and again, and again. Heaving and trembling. Anything to give these people a moment of peace. He shuts his eyes, and for a moment, as he swings down, the wind cuts in what sounds like garbage noise.
When he opens his eyes again, the field is silent and still. The eye continues to watch, and Goth is very aware,it's not the only one.